


Drift Among the Faithful

by micehell



Category: Angels & Demons (2009)
Genre: Angst, M/M, not particularly graphic but squicky all the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-08
Updated: 2009-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He would be strong, for all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift Among the Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> This came from my wondering why Patrick, raised by the then Archbishop, wouldn't have somewhat the same values as the man. I mean, if the Pope was kind of moderate about his religious beliefs, why was Patrick such a zealot? This is one (very wrong) explanation for why that is.
> 
> Title from I'm Not Jesus by Apocalyptica ft. Corey Taylor.

Years ago they'd built a new cathedral, jewel-bright and gold, on the grounds of the old, but Patrick liked the old one best. It was little more than ruin, now, the west end, the nave, and the transept all gone, the apse and the ambulatory dank and dark, like shadows of their former glory.

Father Connor liked the old cathedral, too, always following Patrick when he came out here, watching him carefully as he walked among the crumbling stones. Patrick didn't mind, though, happy enough to have someone to talk to while he waited for his father to finish his business up at the main building.

"There used to be a lady's chapel behind here, and a radiating chapel to the side, just like Amiens. But the east end is squared, which seems to be an English thing. I wonder why?"

Father Connor nodded his head, as if answering something, but since Patrick hadn't asked a question that could be answered by a nod, he didn't know what. He shrugged, going back to the sunken apse. The altar had been built from marble from the local quarry, thick and immovable, standing the test of time better than most of the building. There was still a crucifix hung above it, carved from the same stone, once garish paint chipped away until the far more elegant marble underneath shone through like God's light.

The father had laid out some sandwiches and water, and he called Patrick over. Father Connor tried to hand him his glass, but he spilled it, hands shaking like he was cold.

"Are you all right, Father? I can run down to the main building if you're ill."

Patrick was half-off the broken buttress he was using as a seat, but Father Connor waved him back down, smile as shaky as his hands. "It's all right, Patrick. Just a tic I get sometimes. It's nothing to worry over. Drink up; you've been playing hard all morning."

At sixteen, Patrick didn't really want to think of what he'd been doing as playing. More like exploring church architecture. He figured any information he could glean would be helpful when he reached the seminary. He'd already looked over the coursework, and knew that it was one of the electives you could take.

He ate his sandwich slowly, the thick peanut butter sticking to his mouth as he chewed. Patrick wasn't fond of peanut butter, didn't like the texture, and you had to drink like a gallon of water just to choke the things down, but father had said to mind Father Connor, so he could hardly complain of the lunch he'd been given.

Couldn't complain about the man at all, even though he found him odd. He never said much when he was around, just looking at him as if he were afraid Patrick would disappear if he didn't watch his every move. He was hardly a prepossessing man even in his silence, his alb hanging about him like a sack cloth.

Patrick thought he would always wear the cassock when he became a priest. He liked white, and several girls had told him he looked good in it, but the cassock definitely had more panache. Patrick laughed around the peanut butter, almost choking on it, knowing his father would certainly disapprove of such vanity.

After he finally finished the sandwich, Patrick looked around for anything else he could do to pass the time. There would likely still be several hours to fill, since his father rarely finished before late afternoon whenever they visited here.

The sun pressed down overhead, warm in the crisp air, and his lunch settled uneasily on his stomach. Patrick felt his eyes start to blink heavily as sun and air and lunch all went hazy.

Father Connor's voice broke through the haze, asking softy, "Are you tired, Patrick? Why don't we just get you somewhere to lie down, so that you can sleep while you wait for your father."

He hadn't meant to sleep the day away, usually full of energy while the sun was up, but Patrick let himself be led deeper into the ruined church as lassitude washed over him.

The altar was cold against his skin, and Patrick couldn't remember why that was wrong. Father Connor's hands were cold, too, pressing against his back, pressing him out against the too cold marble, and Patrick wanted to tell him that he didn't sleep on his stomach, especially not when the peanut butter was still giving him issues. But he couldn't get the words out properly, only able to say, "What?" as Father Connor pulled at his pants.

That struck Patrick as very wrong, waking him up as cold hands pressed into his body, into a place they shouldn't be. He managed to get words out now, a loud "No!" that echoed against the stone around them, but no further, and Patrick wanted to cry as he realized that no one would hear them.

He tried to kick back, to get rid of the weight settling behind him, but the world still spun around him, and Father Connor just stepped closer, catching Patrick's body between the cold marble and the heated flesh pressing against his back. He tried not to cry (sixteen was too old to cry, too old to cry), but he couldn't stop when his body was breached, the pain more than he'd expected, more than he'd ever felt.

Even knowing that no one would hear him, Patrick screamed again, "Father!" but the only father here was one who wouldn't help. He just pressed a hand across Patrick's mouth, pulling his head back painfully as he shoved into Patrick again.

With his head pulled back, and his eyes opened wide in pain, Patrick could see the crucifix above him, the beauty underneath the tarnish. He kept his eyes on it, that beauty, barely able to breath around the hand, around the pain, and prayed that it would end. That someone would come.

He was still praying, still watching Christ's eyes (one faded blue, one graying marble), when his prayers were answered.

It didn't seem like an answer at first: Father Connor calling out as he stilled inside Patrick, heat washing out of him, his own father calling out, heat building as he cried, "What the hell are you doing?"

It didn't seem like much of an answer when Father Connor was pulled away from him, either, the pain of his leaving Patrick's body almost as great as his entry. There was no one there to hold Patrick up now, so he slipped down the altar to land in a heap on the cold, broken stone that had once been a beautiful marble floor.

It was then, numb with cold and alone on the floor, that Patrick finally realized that his prayer had been answered. He'd wanted it to be over with, had wanted someone to come. He'd prayed, looking at the crucifix (looking at those sad, cross-colored eyes), and his prayers had been answered.

Patrick didn't have long to marvel at the reward for his faith, because he heard his father cry out again, no words this time, just a jumbled sound that was part pain, part anger. And he was sixteen, and too old to cry (too old to cry), but he couldn't help it, not wanting Father Connor to hurt his father.

He tried to tell his father about the crucifix, about the rewarded faith, but it was lost as Father Connor cried out once more, part fear, part pain, breaking off abruptly as he fell to the floor in front of Patrick. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just stared at Patrick as he'd always done, one eye blue, one red from the blood that spread and pooled under his head.

The world seemed to hold its breath then, nothing stirring for what seemed like forever to Patrick, but might have been no time at all. He couldn't really tell anymore, seconds seeming to last eternity, his heart beating far too fast to be right. But time finally broke, finally reformed into sense as his father cried out, "Oh, God, what have I done?"

Patrick had been told since before he could remember, since long before his father was even his father, not to take the Lord's name in vain, but he didn't think that this was. It was honestly a question directed at God, and Patrick wished, with all the pride he wasn't supposed to have, that he'd been more careful, been smarter, been _better_ , rather than put his father in a position to need to ask that of God.

If his father received an answer, Patrick didn't hear it, everything going blurry after that, running together like the fading colors of the crucifix. Whispers washed over him ( _We must keep this quiet! For the boy's sake, for the Church's sake_ ), and touches ( _Hold still, Patrick, just hold still, it's almost over_ ), and finally, blessedly, it all faded away.

Patrick was in his own bed when he woke, the curtains drawn, the room dark, as if someone had died there. His father was sitting beside him, in lay clothes, a bible clasped tightly in his hands.

He didn't look up, but he seemed to know Patrick was awake, because he started talking. "What that man did to you… it wasn't just a sin, Patrick. It was a sacrilege. To hurt you, to do _that_ , on an altar…"

The bible was old, pages yellowed and crossed over by spidery lines of thought in the margins. It was one of his father's most cherished possessions, but it was falling apart under his hands now, fingers gripping too tight, curling the spine and cracking old leather as his father shook beside him.

"Murder is a sin, Patrick. That's something you know. Something your life has taught you far too early. But sometimes… sometimes it's necessary to take drastic measures. To protect those who need it. To protect the Church, even from those within."

The bible was useless now, pages broken like confetti as they drifted to the floor.

"You come from a race of warriors. You are one yourself. You'll come out of this stronger than before. I know I can count on you. I know you'll do what's right. One day, when you're a priest, I know you'll work with me to insure that such… sacrilege never happens again. You can do that for me, can't you, Patrick? You can keep this secret for the good of the Church?"

Patrick's memories were clouded, but the pain in his body was like a map to what had happened. He could still see the crucifix before him, could feel the man behind him, could remember praying that someone would come and stop it. And someone had, like proof of what faith could bring you.

He wanted to share that proof, to share that faith, but his father needed him not to. The Church needed him not to. So Patrick just nodded, and looked at the remains of his father's cherished bible, spilled across the floor like the debris from the worst party ever.

His faith had saved him. His faith could help save the Church. Patrick nodded again, fingers pressed over the broken bible, taking the vow his father had set him.

He would be strong, for all of them.

/story


End file.
